In Every Universe
by professortennant
Summary: A collection of unrelated AUs: In every universe, in every scenario, they find each other. Jean/Lucien, Matthew/Alice
1. Prison AU

"Jean, are you ever going to stop trying to save my soul?" Lucien's sardonic words rung out in the stale air of the prison room and Jean sighed, closing the Bible in her lap and folding her hands over the closed book.

The Ballarat prison had a rather archaic belief that their prisoners could be saved during their prison stint. The idea was that a good, Christian soul was not a criminal soul. For Lucien Blake, who had spent more time in and out of prison since his release from the British army than anyone else he knew, the idea of his soul being scrubbed clean was laughable.

But then the Church sent Jean Beazley to the Ballarat prison and he took one look at her blue eyes and trim waist and curled hair and decided that he would sit through every Psalm in the book if it meant Jean would hold his hand.

* * *

So, three times a week, he and Jean sat in his cell, pressed together from shoulder to hip, and talked. She insisted she at least _reference_ the Bible every once in a while, but in truth, they talked about everything and nothing.

How her boys were getting on, the gossip around town, where she would go if she could go anywhere in the world, what he would do if he could take her there. These sessions were feeling more and more like courtship rituals than attempts to convert Lucien.

Jean put her Bible aside, turning to face him. "At this moment, I'm more concerned with that black eye you have than your soul. You've been picking fights again, haven't you?"

He raised his eyebrows at her, hands clutching at his chest in mock outrage. "You just assume _I_ am the one who started it?"

She arched a single eyebrow at him, pursing her lips. He conceded, waving her off. "Yes, alright. I started it. He deserved it though," he added. "Going on about matters he had no business speaking of."

She sighed and she reached out, cool fingertips brushing the dark, swollen skin around his eyes. "Lucien…"

He covered her hand with his own, wincing at the added pressure on his eye, but the feel of Jean's skin against his own was worth every ounce of pain. "I know, I know. I promise I'll be a good boy. It's just so _boring_ in here, Jean."

Rolling her eyes, she looked at him with exasperation and fondness. "You know you could just not commit crimes and avoid prison altogether?"

In truth, they both knew that Lucien's crimes were hardly crimes at all. Assault, trespassing, and drunk and disorderly. Even the assault charges themselves were in the name of protecting others and Jean, no matter what the law said, had difficulty in faulting him for that.

Lucien grinned at her, leaning in conspiratorially, "But where's the fun in that?"

Before she could respond–she was still deciding if she wanted to scold him or laugh at him–the prison guard was banging on Lucien's bars and barking at them, "Time's up! C'mon, Mrs. Beazley."

Pulling her hand away from his face, ignoring the way Lucien squeezed her hand before it fell from his face, she gathered her Bible and stood. "Until next time? I expect to see you in tip-top shape; no more fighting," she said sternly.

She smiled at him softly and turned to leave, the guard waiting for her was holding the cell door open for her impatiently. Lucien caught her hand in his, surprising her, and stopped her movements.

"Until next time," he murmured, ducking his head and pressing his lips to the back of her hand. Jean blushed, ignoring the rapid beating of her heart at the feel of his lips on her skin.

He let her go and watched her disappear out his cell and down the corridor, already trying to memorize everything about their encounter: the way she smiled at him, the warmth and taste of her skin, the sound of her laughter.

Jean Beazley, he decided, was God's last laugh at him: everything he wanted and everything he could never have while he was stuck in this prison cell.


	2. Two Miserable People Meet at Wedding AU

Lucien threw back the last of his scotch with a grimace, eyeing the festivities around him. The Tyneman family was equal parts ancient family friend and long-time adversary. As the last representative from the Blake family, he was obligated to attend Edward's wedding (that andthe threat from Patrick to skip this year's donation to Victim Support if he didn't attend).

Pushing his chair back from the table, he stood and walked to the thankfully-open bar. A few more glasses of scotch and he would be well on his way to a state in which a Tyneman wedding wasn't all that bad.

He flagged down the barman and took a seat, looking around before he did a double take at the woman he had sat next to. Softly curling hair, an upturned nose, steel blue eyes, bright red lips, all wrapped up in an exquisite wine-colored gown. His heart skipped a beat and he found himself learning towards her, noticing her frown.

* * *

"Not a big fan of weddings?" His shoulder brushed hers and he pretended not to notice the shock of warmth it sent straight to his fingers.

The woman turned to him, her frown evaporating in the face of his grin and she shook her head, smiling at him ruefully. "I'm afraid–and, oh, don't think less of me, but," she bit her lip. "I'm afraid I'm not much a fan of the family."

Lucien let out a bark of laughter, picking up the drink the bartender had placed in front of him. He lifted his glass, "Now, _that_ I will cheers to." The woman raised her wine glass and clinked the glass against his drink, eyeing him over the rim as she took a sip in cheers.

He extended his hand, "I'm Lucien, by the way. Lucien Blake." She took his hand and he noticed the softness of her hand, the way his hand wrapped completely around hers.

"I'm Jean Beazley."

They shared a smile and Lucien was proud to note that her eyes flickered over his face, taking him in, lingering on his lips. The noise of the wedding seemed to fade away and all he could see, all he could hear was her.

"So, Jean Beazley, what did the esteemed Tynemans do to earn your ire?"

Jean blushed, looking down at her wine glass, swirling its contents absentmindedly. "Truth be told, Patrick is at his heart a lovely man, I'm sure. But, well, I work at the art museum downtown and Patrick owns a portrait I'm desperate to have in our collection and he insinuated if I attended his son's wedding with him, he'd be open to negotiating."

Lucien nodded, "I see. This portrait must be really worth it if you're willing to subject yourself to a couple of hours of Patrick's time. Out of curiosity," he added. "Which artist are you after?"

Jean's eyes lit up, "Her name is Genevieve Etienne." Lucien froze, hoping his face betrayed nothing. Jean didn't seem to notice and she continued, "She doesn't have very many works in circulation, but this particular piece is just," she sighed, wistfully. "It's beautiful, all her works are, but this one is different. There's a sadness to it. It's like you can feel it in the brushstrokes. It's absolutely stunning."

Lucien took another sip of his scotch, nodding. He was just contemplating how to tell her Genevieve Etienne was his mother–that he had a whole room full of her paintings if Jean wanted to look at them some time–when a commotion startled them both.

Across the bar from them, Edward and his new bride were surrounded by the bridal party, all cheering and egging the pair on as Edward deposited his wife onto the bar and proceeded to lick a shot of tequila out of the hollow of her throat.

The hoots and hollers filled the banquet hall and Lucien and Jean turned to one another, both shaking their heads. Jean pursed her lips, "Seems more of an activity suited for a nightclub than a wedding, if you ask me."

Lucien grinned, knocking her shoulder with his, "Well, if you ask _me_ , I'd say there was something rather romantic about drinking from your partner's body. It's about as intimate as you can legally be in a public forum."

His voice had dropped an octave and it was low and husky, his eyes flicking to Jean's mouth, already imagining the places he'd lick first. She was absolutely stunning and he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so affected by another person.

Jean's eyes met his and he could see the beginnings of desire and he let out a half-groan when she bit her lip before confessing, "I've never done one before."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Never?"

She shook her head, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. "I'm afraid I married rather young and my late husband and I never had much time for the typical party scene; we had a family and a business to run. And when he passed away, I just couldn't bring myself to go out with the girls like that. It felt like I lived a different life."

Lucien covered her hand with his and squeezed it, offering comfort. "I'm sorry to hear about your husband, truly."

Jean covered his hand with hers, "Thank you. It was a long time ago. But thank you."

A brief moment of silence fell over them and Lucien scrambled, not wanting the conversation to end. He caught sight of Edward pouring another shot into the crook of his bride's elbow and he got an idea.

Turning back to Jean, he smiled at her, "It's not too late, you know." His grin widened at her look of confusion. "To have a body shot, I mean."

Her eyes widened and she held her hands up in front of her, warding him off. "Oh no, I think I'm well past those days, now. Plus, I don't think anyone here wants to lick anything off me." She tucked her hair behind her ear, looking down.

Lucien took a deep breath. The scotch and the heady smell of her perfume and the power of her smile were all going to his head because he felt invincible, daring.

He took her hand in his and turned it over, palm up. With his free hand, he dipped his finger into his scotch and drew a single, wet line down the inside of her wrist.

Beneath her skin, he could feel her pulse thrumming, felt the warmth of her body. He looked up at her, "Trust me?" His heart hammered uncomfortably in his chest and he mentally pleaded with her to say yes.

To his delight, she nodded at him, watching with wide eyes as he ducked his head and licked the line of scotch straight from her skin, closing his eyes and savoring the combination of sharp, bitter alcohol and the sweet taste of her. He lingered at her wrist for a moment, his nose nuzzling at her pulse point.

When he released her wrist, he sat back and smacked his lips and grinned. "There," he said softly, just for her ears. "Now you've had a body shot."

Jean stared at him, eyes flicking between her freshly-licked wrist and the pleased, smug grin on his face. Then she laughed, rubbing at the spot on her wrist thoughtfully, "Technically, I think _you're_ the one who had the shot."

Lucien leaned forward, ready to tell her that he had a hotel key in his pocket and they could order room service and she could strip him down and take as many body shots as she wanted off of him so long as she kept _looking_ at him like that–like he was special and interesting and mattered.

But before he could work up the courage to say anything, Patrick Tyneman was there, offering his hand to Jean and giving Lucien a cursory nod. "Jean, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?"

Jean slipped her hand into Patrick's and nodded, "Of course, Patrick." As Patrick led her away to the dance floor, Lucien saw her look back at him, eyes apologetic.

He slumped back into his chair, draining his scotch and licking his lips, hoping to still find a trace of her taste there. He really, really hated the Tynemans.


	3. Soulmate AU

Lucien Blake's world had been shades of grey for as long as he could remember. His mother had promised him that once he found his soul mate, their skin would press together, and his world would explode into color. She made it sound so magical that young Lucien had run around the school yard, hands outstretched, chasing after every girl, ready to see the colors his mother had promised.

But here he was, 46 years old and not a splash of color in sight. It was time to face a truth he had put off from facing: he wasn't destined for anybody. There was no perfect half, no person who would complete him, nobody. He was too fucked up for anyone to love, why would he be deserving of a soulmate?

So he gave up. He was careful to conceal his skin–covered himself in three-piece suits and gloves. No one would touch him again. It was better than constant disappointment.

And then his father died and his world of grey sharpened and the hues of black darkened further, leaving him alone in his childhood home with a housekeeper he didn't know.

* * *

But his father's housekeeper–Jean Beazley–was a saint. She had cleaned up after him on more than one occasion when alcohol seemed to be his only companion and he'd spilled more than one drink down himself.

It was strange, living with a woman he didn't really know. But her constant presence in his home–steady and assuring–soothed an ache in his heart that he didn't know was there. She filled the silence of the house when he couldn't bring himself to speak. Jean spoke of her life before the Blake household, including a husband and children (he couldn't bear to ask if her colors were as bright as his mother described).

She walked into the parlor and sung along with his piano playing. She served him extra mashed potatoes and gravy because she knew it was his favorite. She kept him organized and focused while he began seeing patients again. She smiled at him and pursed her lips and rolled her eyes and she was just…. _everything_.

He was falling in love with her. Maybe it was time to take one more chance. One night, with a deep breath and shaking hands, he took his gloves off for the first time in twelve months. Jean came into the parlor, holding a drink in each hand for them, stopping dead in her tracks at the sight of Lucien's bare hands.

"Lucien?" she questioned softly. She placed the drinks down on the coffee table and sat next to him, waiting for an explanation.

Lucien licked his lips, wringing his hands in front of him. "Jean, I've been scared for a long time. But I want to leave my past in the past and follow my heart going forward into the future and I think my heart is leading me to you," he finished shyly.

Jean's heart leapt into her throat. "Oh, Lucien…"

Lucien's bare hand hovered over Jean's, slightly shaking. He looked up at her, "Jean, even if nothing happens, I want _you_. I don't care if I never see a color in my life. I only want to ever see you."

Jean's eyes filled with tears and she bit her lip. "Lucien, I-I need to tell you that I already found my soulmate. My husband–Christopher–when we married we both saw color. I was able to see color while he was alive." She let the tears fall, sniffling. "I haven't heard of someone having two soulmates, but I want to see color with you, Lucien, I do! I feel the same way. But I don't want to be another disappointment for you."

She looked up at him, tearfully. Lucien nodded, smiling at her. "Then it doesn't matter one way or the other."

Lucien's hand covered hers and he surged forward, slanting his mouth over hers and his eyes slamming shut. He concentrated on the feel of her hand on his neck, her tongue sweeping over his lips, the soft moans she emitted, the feel of warmth spreading from his chest down to his fingertips as something settled in his chest and something just felt _right._

As the kiss ended, he kept his eyes closed, leaning his forehead against hers. He was terrified to shatter the dream, to open his eyes and be disappointed again.

And then he heard it, Jean's soft gasp, "Oh, Lucien! Lucien, love, open your eyes." Her fingers traced the curve of his eyebrow and her lips pressed a kiss to each eyelid. "Trust me."

With a deep breath, he opened his eyes and his heart stopped.

Color.

Beautiful, stunning, breathtaking _color_. He cupped her face in his hands, gasping out, "Let me look at you." He saw her eyes for the first time: steely blue and sparkling and beautiful. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her lips painted deep red.

"Beautiful," he whispered, fingers ghosting over her face. "Absolutely beautiful."

Jean laughed through her tears, hands threading through his hair. "You have salt 'n pepper hair! And your _eyes_." Jean threw herself at him, holding him close. Lucien clutched at her, shaking slightly and overwhelmed with the influx of color in his world.

Every color popped with a vividness he couldn't have described and he sent up a silent prayer to his mother, telling her that it _was_ everything she described and hoping she was witnessing this moment.

Jean had given him everything and he would spend the rest of his life by his soulmate's side, determined to give her just as much. Pressing his mouth to every inch of skin he could reach–her neck and cheeks and lips and ears and hands–he promised to burn the gloves he had worn for so long.

He didn't need them anymore.


	4. Partners in Crime AU

Jean checked her watch, tapping her foot anxiously. Lucien was meant to be at the rendezvous point twenty minutes ago. This was one of the bigger–and, thanks to Lucien, more complicated–heists they had ever gone after.

The Ballarat Begonia: a timeless, bright pink gem molded and blown into a flower-like shape. It was stunning, priceless, and Jean coveted it.

But it would be their big break, one last heist to clear their ledgers and then they were setting sail, leaving Australia behind them and venturing out in the world ahead.

Although, none of that would happen if Lucien had been caught. She bounced nervously from foot to foot, anxious. She had played her part perfectly: flirted her way through museum security (despite Lucien's jealous growling in her ear piece, complaining she was flirting a little _too_ convincingly) and disabled the security cameras.

Something had gone wrong between her disabling of the security cameras and Lucien's entry into the sealed room. Their comms pieces had gone static and then popped, cutting off all methods of communications. Jean could only hope Lucien had collected the Begonia and escaped unharmed.

* * *

When she got her hands on him after being late….

And then there were arms wrapped around her middle and an unmistakable beard rubbing against her neck. "Fashionably late."

Jean turned in his arms, swatting him. "Lucien Blake, you're too clever for your own good. If we had just done this _my_ way, you wouldn't have been late to the rendezvous point, our comms wouldn't have gone out, and–"

His lips sealed over hers, cutting her off. She sighed, melting into the kiss and pressed herself into him. He was absolutely randy after a heist–running high on adrenaline and his own cleverness. Jean would be lying if she wasn't a bit turned on by his cleverness as well and she had no issue in slotting her leg between his thighs, gasping at the hardness there.

"Is that a Begonia in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

Lucien laughed, "That was terrible, love." He kissed the tip of her nose, grinning. "That is our ticket out of here. That's a job well done and a new start for us."

They both turned out of the dark alley, Lucien throwing an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close, walking out into the night. "Alright, love, where do you want to go first?"

She beamed, forgiving him immediately. One day, his desire to be the smartest in the room would be their downfall, but for now, she was happy to spout out which countries she wanted to see first. Dipping her hand low and slipping it into his back pocket, she mused out loud, "Somewhere completely new. Maybe Argentina? Me in a bikini, you with a little umbrella in your drink…"

Lucien listened to her paint a picture of their future, far away from Ballarat. He promised himself he would do anything to give her the world.


	5. Fake Relationship AU (Malice)

Alice folded the letter with a sigh and tucked it away into the drawer of her writing desk. Another letter from her mother, questioning when exactly she anticipated putting school behind her and started looking ahead to a future with a husband and future children.

She had already caused her family's reputation to suffer when she'd disappeared to university; rising far above her station and forsaking the duties expected of her. But Alice knew she was destined for something _more_ than marriage and motherhood. There were bones and muscles of the human body to memorize and the wonders of modern medicine to explore.

Odd as she may be, she had found a _home_ here at university amongst the stone towers and hallowed halls of education. The men may sneer and condescend to her but she felt deep in her bones this was where she belonged.

A knock on her dormitory door startled her and she stood, her skirts falling about her, and answered the door, delighted to see Mr. Matthew Lawson waiting for her.

"Mr. Lawson!" She grinned at him, standing aside to let him in. Matthew had joined a few of her classes–just a few ethics and forensics classes–last term and where most men thought her an oddity, Matthew seemed to be fascinated by her in all the right ways.

* * *

"Miss Harvey," he greeted with a smile and a bow. He took his hat off and spun it in his hands. In his three-piece suit and gold-tipped cane, he looked every bit the gentleman. Alice suddenly wished she had something slightly more formal on and that she had pinned her hair more attractively.

Matthew didn't seem to mind though. He stood before her, cheeks pink and nervously spinning his cane in his fingers. "Miss Harvey, I've come to enquire if you'd be so kind as to accompany me to the Bonfire Night festivities Saturday next?"

Alice's lips parted in surprise. Though she had always found him rather attractive (how could she not between his soft smiles and quick wit), he hadn't shown the slightest interest in expanding their friendship beyond the walls of the classroom.

The word _Yes_ was so close to tumbling from her lips, heart racing at the implications, when her mind flashed back to her mother's letter. She closed her eyes and groaned, "Oh, I'd love to. But my mother is visiting me then and she is intent on dragging me around Melbourne until a suitable husband is found for me."

Matthew's spinning cane came to a halt and he looked down, disappointed. "Oh." He looked back up at her, questioning. "Then you're eager to become betrothed? Are you going to leave Melbourne?"

Her eyes widened, "No! Not at all! Truth be told, I'd rather put off betrothal for as long as possible." She looked at him, her own fears bubbling up. Her mother's letter, the constant grating upon her to do her duty had opened up old wounds.

"I'm not _normal_ , Mr. Lawson. I don't want the things a woman should want. I just wish my mother could see that I was doing just fine." She sighed, folding her hands demurely in front of her. "I'm sorry, you don't need to hear me whinging about the burden of womanhood."

But Matthew was staring at her, hard and appraising. Hesitantly, he stepped forward and reached out a single gloved hand as if to squeeze her hands in reassurance, but he thought better of it and his hand fell to his side.

"Miss Harvey, I may not know many women and it's true, you're not like them. You're–" He stopped himself, biting his lip, wondering how much was appropriate to say. "You're _wonderful_. And if that means you aren't normal, then, well," he finished inarticulately before smiling at her and whispering conspiratorially, "Then to blazes with them."

She muffled a laugh into her hands, pleased he felt so at ease with her that he could drop some of the formalities that society inflicted upon them. "Oh Matthew, how is it you know just what to say to make me feel better?"

"Maybe I just know you," he said softly.

Her heart stopped and restarted in her chest and she felt her cheeks flush at his words. Looking down shyly, she smiled and said wistfully, "I do wish I was available to attend the festivities with you next weekend."

Matthew looked at her thoughtfully, "What if your mother thought you were betrothed already? Or at least were being courted for betrothal? She'd be inclined to perhaps join you for an evening celebrating Guy Fawkes night instead of dragging you about Melbourne, wouldn't you say?"

There was a definite glint in his eyes now and he was now talking animatedly, " _And_ if she thought this, she wouldn't send you letters inquiring after your love life anymore, would she? That would certainly free your mind from weighing these matters so heavily and you could focus on your studies instead."

Alice tilted her head at him, nodding along. "Yes, I suppose that's true. But I'm _not_ betrothed! Or being courted! So I don't see how–"

Matthew rolled his eyes at her, finally taking her hand in his. "What if we told your mother _we_ were courting? And then I," he continued, now shy. "I could escort you out for an evening next weekend?"

Alice stared at him, trying to ignore the rapid beating of her heart and the warmth of his hand in hers. "Are you completely out of your mind?"

Matthew nodded, still smiling at her, still holding her hand, his thumb now daringly stroking the soft skin of her wrist. "That's what Professor Munro keeps telling me."

She laughed and stared at him in wonder. "Matthew, how do you expect us to sell _us_ as a couple to my mother?"

"I know quite a lot about you, Miss Harvey. Enough to speak authoritatively enough as your fiancée anyway. And we wouldn't be required to consummate our relationship in front of your mother, would we?"

Alice blushed again. In many ways, this was a cruel twist of fate. How many nights had she lain awake, wondering what his skin against hers would feel like; what it would sound like if he called her _Alice_ ; wondering what it would be like to call him hers.

And now he stood before her, holding her hand, and suggesting all her dreams come true: as a farce.

But Alice was an unusual woman and if this as how she would get a piece of the life–the man–she craved, she would take it.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but alright." They both let out a laugh, not quite believing their own daring.

Lifting their still-joined hands to his lips, Matthew pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. It was a soft, chaste gesture–hardly anything in the grand scheme of a courtship (fake or otherwise). And yet Alice felt it like a shock from her hand up through her elbow, spreading warmth through her.

"W-what are you doing?" She stammered.

He grinned at her wolfishly, "Just practicing, Miss Harvey."

She swallowed, mouth dry. "In that case, you better start calling me Alice. Not many courting couples refer to the other by their formal names."

Matthew nodded, "Too right, _Alice_." She loved the way her name sounded when spoken by him, watched his lips form around the words and committed the sound to memory.

With another press of his lips to her hand, he let her go and she felt his loss immediately: no more warmth, no more pounding heartbeat, no more tangle of nerves settling in her stomach.

"Until next weekend then, _Alice."_ And with that, he was walking out of her door, unaware that he had fulfilled nearly every fantasy she'd ever dreamed of.

The sound of the door clicked closed, leaving Alice behind, unconsciously rubbing at the place on her hand where his lips had so reverently pressed.

Oh, she was in trouble.


	6. Flower Shop AU

Lucien Blake should be at a medical conference right now, giving a keynote speech on the advances in forensic medicine.

Instead, thanks to a truly awful sense of direction, he's elbow-deep in a pot of dirt and fertilizer with the most enchanting woman he's ever seen leaning over his shoulder, softly correcting his placement of his sage plant.

A gardening workshop at The Beazley's Knees is a much, much better use of his time. He'd meant to stop in and ask for directions, but he was helpless to do anything else but roll up his sleeves and join in, especially if Jean—the owner—kept looking at him like that.

* * *

Her laughter is as bright and warm as the sun filtering through the windows of the shop and she shakes her head at him. "Honestly, Lucien, you may be the most dreadful student I've ever had."

Lucien doesn't have the heart to tell her he's got as black a thumb as anyone he knows and the only reason he's here is because she beamed at him—the first real smile he's been on the receiving end for quite some time.

There's only a few other people crowded around the wooden work surfaces and he fights down the irrational sense of jealousy every time Jean checks in on them. Equally as irrational, he tries not to puff his chest too much in pride when Jean praises his stem cutting and re-potting skills.

Even with the fragrances from the flowers and the earthiness of the soil, Lucien thinks the smell of Jean's perfume is the loveliest thing he's ever inhaled in his life and he fights the urge to bury his nose in her neck to get closer to the smell, much like a bee drinking nectar from a flower.

He watches the clock on the wall tick down, anxious and worried for what will happen when the class is over and he will have to leave this place with only the memory of Jean's laughter and a small clay pot filled to the brim with sage and rosemary and coriander.

The clock finally strikes four and the other patrons begin gathering their supplies and leaving, thanking Jean for the lesson and promising to return later in the week. Even Lucien-who was never one to fuss about with flowers and the like-can see there's a _magic_ to the shop. Every plant is plump and green and lively; each flower and petal bright and happy; even the air is crisp and clean and _alive_.

And amidst it all is _her:_ Jean, with her bright eyes and shy smile and flowered apron and dirt under her fingernails and a streak of soil upon her cheek, sunlight creating a halo effect around her.

Her beauty hits him like a sucker punch to the gut and he finds himself, normally so confident and boisterous, shy and hanging back, desperate to be in her presence for as long as he can.

Lucien offers to sweep up the mess he's made and she happily accepts, admitting that as much as she likes a tidy home and shop, she _despises_ sweeping. He leans close and lets her in on a secret, "I admit, my home has turned into quite the bachelor pad since I've moved back here."

It's as if a door has opened between them and they spend the next half hour sweeping and cleaning up spare plant cuttings, exchanging stories and favorite hobbies. Lucien, distracted by the conversation, sweeps a little too forcefully and ends up sending a cloud of leaves and soil at Jean's feet.

He's mortified, blushing and stammering, but Jean only laughs. "You're worse than my sons." She grins and throws a flower bud at him in retaliation. He catches the flower-a bright red begonia bud-and steps closer, tucking the bloom behind her ear.

Jean blushes and looks up at him through lowered lashes and he feels like a schoolboy all over again. If he were a braver man, he'd step forward then, stroke her cheek and invite her for an early dinner. Maybe, if he were a bolder man, he'd act on this _tension_ between them and dare to steal a kiss-however chaste.

But he's a disaster-leaving destruction and misery behind in his wake-and he can't bear to break her, to send her tossing about in his sea.

So he steps back, leaning the broom against the work table and brushing his hands against his slacks, nervously rubbing at his forehead with his thumb and forefinger.

"I should just, uh, be going then."

He turns and gathers his potted herbs, missing her crestfallen face. He smiles at her, taking in every last detail of her. Maybe he'd visit her later in the week under the guise of sprucing up his bachelor pad. But before he can think of something-anything-to say, she's reaching for him.

"Lucien? I'm hosting another workshop early next week. Succulents and cacti." She shoots him a sardonic grin. "Even you can't kill those."

He laughs, pleased at her teasing. "You're overestimating my abilities, Jean."

She bites her lip, eyes alight with mischief. "Well, you better come to class and prove me wrong."

It's like an explosion of butterflies in his stomach, threatening to bubble up and out of his mouth and he fights the urge to literally _whoop_ with glee. Jean _wants_ him to come back. Jean _wants_ to see him again. Jean is _flirting_ with him.

His voice is quivering with barely restrained happiness and excitement and he promises to see her again soon. He's so focused on immediately analyzing every touch, every smile, every laugh from the last hour and a half that he misses Jean smiling softly to herself, fingers ghosting over the petals of the flower tucked behind her ear.


	7. Artist AU (Part One)

The studio room smelled of fresh paint and charcoal and the whisper of parchment and canvas being removed from portfolios filled the air. The easels were arranged in a circle and in the center sat a raised platform with a bowl of fruit and a thin drape.

Lucien Blake took his seat by the open window, sunlight filtering in across the room directly in front of him: the perfect spot. Art school was hardly his father's choice (who had pushed and pushed and pushed for medical school), but it was his mother's dream for him.

And after she passed away, each stroke of his brush and each smudging of ink made him feel closer to her; as if her spirit lived within his art. So he had packed up his belongings and headed for art school and endeavored to learn every medium. Today's class: figure drawing with a live model.

The other students filtered into the room and soon the class was starting, the instructor going over the preliminary parameters of the projects and the general rules of respect when working with a model.

Today's model would be clothed, but tomorrow the model would be nude. The weeklong project would start with a female model for the first few days and then a male model would be brought in.

Lucien had been nervous that he'd be unable to concentrate with a naked woman in the room but the instructor made everything so clinical and straightforward. His nerves were finally dwindling down and he felt at ease, the art and creation ready to flow through him.

And then the model walked in.

She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever had the good fortune to look upon. Gently curling hair falling about her shoulders in soft waves, bright blue eyes, her face devoid of any trace of make-up, and her figure slim with an alluring curve to her hip.

She was wearing a thin nude-colored camisole and nude-colored shorts. Even from this seat, Lucien could see goosebumps prickling across her skin. He noticed, with a wave of heat to his cheeks, that her nipples were erect and visible against her camisole.

Lucien swallowed harshly and picked up his drawing pencil, watching the woman climb up on the platform, contorting her body as directed by the instructor. Each pose seemed to showcase her elongated legs and elegant arms and fingers, every movement effortless.

They were meant to sketch bits and pieces to get a feel for working with the nuances of working with a live model–adjusting for breathing and stretches and movement. But Lucien was locked in, his pencil flying over his sketchpad and sketching the curve of her knee and the arch of her eyebrow.

He captured her sharp eyes and the soft bow of her lips. His pencil shaded the soft swell of her breasts and the shadows that fell across her body.

The hour felt like a minute and before he knew it, the instructor was calling time and his fellow students were packing up and turning their back on the goddess in the middle of the room as if she was just another mortal amongst them.

But Lucien knew better and he was reckless and arrogant and already half in love with her. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he approached the woman. She was sliding a ridiculously thick, pink fluffy robe over her form and he already hated the thing for hiding her from him.

He cleared his throat, ready to introduce himself, ready to work up the courage to invite her out for a cup of coffee or a drink–whatever she wanted. But before he could get a word out, she was turning to him, eyes flashing.

"You're not supposed to talk to me."

Lucien frowned at her, hiking the bag up on his shoulder more securely. "What's that now?"

The woman tightened the sash around her waist and glared. "Students aren't supposed to interact with me. It helps keep boundaries and, you know," she gestured around her. "Keeps me safe."

He couldn't help it: he laughed. This didn't seem to endear him to her any and he quickly muffled his laughter, turning serious once more. "No, of course," he held up his hands as if in surrender. "Safety first, after all."

A smile still played about his lips and he fought the urge to bump her shoulder with his. But she just pursed her lips at him and turned back to the platform, gathering her bags.

Lucien felt the opportunity slipping away from him and he scrambled to introduce himself to her, finally. "I'm Lucien, by the way, Lucien Blake." He stuck his hand out between them, offering her a handshake.

The woman turned back to him with a heavy sigh, eyeing him critically and flicking her eyes to his outstretched hand. "You don't give up do you?"

He grinned boyishly at her, "Nope!" He popped the 'p' sound and he was delighted to see the first flickerings of a smile upon her face.

She shook her head at him, "You sound like my son, you know."

Lucien stared at her, already cradling that piece of information close to his heart. She had a _son_. A surreptitious glance at her left hand revealed a bare finger and the mystery surrounding her deepened.

He was definitely intrigued.

Finally– _finally_ –she took his hand and he couldn't help but notice the way her hand fit in his perfectly, the skin of her palms calloused and rough. With her free hand, she tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear.

"I'm Jean. Jean Beazley."

They stood there for a moment, slowly shaking the other's hand and smiling at each other. After a moment, Jean pulled away, cheeks decidedly more pink than they were a few minutes ago.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow, Lucien Blake."

He grinned at her, waving her goodbye. Lucien watched her go, trying his hardest to be a gentleman but failing utterly and his eyes fell to her backside, admiring the curve of her backside as she sashayed out of the room.

Tomorrow–nude day–was going to be a nightmare. He couldn't wait.


	8. Artist AU (Part Two)

They've been married now almost a year. A year of kisses and fights and lovemaking and ups and downs. A year of waking up beside her and burying his nose behind her ear, inhaling the scent of _her_ before starting his day.

A year of waking up every morning and seeing the most beautiful woman in the world entangled in his arms, pressed against his chest, and snoring lightly.

And still, his artist's hands twitched with the urge to capture every freckle, every curve, every detail.

This morning was no different, he inhaled at the patch of skin behind her ear, tongue flicking out as he kissed her good morning, before reaching behind him and sitting up in bed, grabbing his sketchpad and charcoal pencil.

He looked down at her, wanting to capture the way her cheek smooshed against the pillow, the thin line of drool dribbling down her lip. Jean–his wife–was better than any model, any figment of imagination. She was real. She was his. She was his muse.

For a moment, it was just him, the sound of Jean's breathing, and the scratch of the pencil on thick paper. And then, Jean was stirring to life, eyes bleary and hair curled and sticking up at all ends.

"Lucien?"

He grinned down at her, tongue poking out from behind his teeth, as he put the finishing touches on his sketch, the last shadows of the hollow of her throat being shaded in by his gentle strokes. "Morning, love."

She hooked her leg over his and curled against his side even tighter, resting her chin on his arm to get a better look at his sketchpad. "Oh, Lucien," she scolded, cheeks blushing. "Again?"

It had been her job, at first, to pose for him. After their first night together as a couple, she had been flattered that he still wanted to capture her, especially in the immediate aftermath of their lovemaking.

But now, after a year of marriage, she found herself bewildered that he would still want to sketch her; that he would find anything new at all to capture.

She voiced these concerns and Lucien looked at her, surprised. He closed the sketchbook and placed it back on his bedside table, turning and pushing Jean back down into the mattress amongst the pillows and sheets.

"Jean," he said, eyes searching, nose nuzzling at her jaw and nose and cheek. "You're the most beautiful person in the entire world. I find something new to love every morning and when I'm old and gray and can't remember my bottoms from my tops, I want to remember you."

He kissed her then, slow and sweet and searching. One day, he would find a way to capture this: the feel of her mouth on his, the sound of her soft sigh, the sensation of her perpetually cold feet rubbing against his calves.

Pulling away, he looked down at her before promptly bursting into laughter. Jean frowned and pushed at his shoulders, but Lucien just settled more against her, still laughing.

"What? Lucien Blake, you tell me what's so funny right now."

Managing to stifle his laughter, he propped himself up on an elbow and showed her his fingers: filthy and charcoal black.

Her eyes widened and she turned sharply to see his hand prints all over the white sheets where he braced himself above her and then, with realization, she gently prodded at her cheeks and neck, examining her fingers as she pulled them away from her face.

Covered in black charcoal.

Lucien sniggered above her, burying his face in the curve of her neck. "You're my living sketch, love."

His lips were doing wonderful things to the sensitive skin of her neck and she sighed, giving in, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him more firmly on top of her. Her own charcoaled hands were ghosting over his back and leaving their own marks.

After all, the sheets were already dirty–what was a little more filth?


	9. CriminalCop AU

He corners her in an alleyway, caught red-handed. Literally, the dye on the jeweled dress in her hand is seeping into the white fabric of her glove. The police–led by Lawson–are out front, setting up a perimeter like any by-the-book police unit would.

But her Lucien isn't like them at all. He's followed her into the alleyway, deep into the spider's web. They've played this cat and mouse game for a year–her Moriarty to his Sherlock.

And for the first time, they're meeting here: under the cover of darkness and half-lit alleys, police sirens wailing in the distance, and a priceless historical artifact in her hand.

She leans back against the brick wall of the dead-end, grip tightening on the dress, eyes darting from his face–smug and appraising–to the rest of the street, seeking a way out. She doesn't want this game to be over, not yet.

"So, you finally caught up to me. About time, Dr. Blake, I was losing faith in you."

He laughs then, shrugging. "Lawson had me on a leash." The smile he flashes at her is all bared teeth and he's stalking her now, moving in slowly, cornering her like prey. She shivers.

It's in her very nature to run but with Lucien looking at her like this, her feet are stuck to the ground. He continues moving towards her, appraising. "You've been running a long time. I've enjoyed the little notes you've been leaving me, _Housekeeper."_

The timbre of his voice rumbles over her chosen moniker–the name by which the underground art rings know her–and she shivers, wondering if he would tie her up to interrogate her, lowering his voice like this, leaning close.

She spots her opening, then, as he closes in. There's a gap between the dumpster and the brick wall and if she could just _slip by_ , she'd be home free, the backstreet behind Lucien unguarded and without patrol.

Turning a bright smile on him, she keeps his attention, raising her shoulder in a half-shrug. "Well, it was getting dreadfully boring getting away with everything. Besides," she adds with a grin as he finally steps close enough for her to see the greying hairs in his beard and the gentle rise and fall of his chest. "I _like_ being chased."

She steps into him, her free hand trailing over the brass buttons of his waistcoat and she gasps when he wraps his hand around her wrist, stopping her movement. "Jean…"

His voice is full of warning and reprimand, but there's an undercurrent of _something_ between them. This game they've played–cat and mouse–has been thrilling, building between them for months. It's dangerous, she knows. He could pin her arms behind her, arrest her and take her to jail, the end, game over.

But something tells her that he needs this–needs _her_ –as much as she needs him (even if she won't admit it to herself, not yet).

Her eyes flicker to the open street behind him. He's distracted, monologuing about how clever she is, how much he's enjoyed following her clues, how impressed he is. It's all very flattering and one day she'll return the favor.

But not today.

She leans up then, quick and focused and she tells herself this is a means to an end, and presses her lips to his. He stiffens beneath her touch for a split-second and she wonders if for once she's miscalculated, read him wrong.

Before panic can overtake her, he's responding, sliding his lips over hers with an ardor that surprised her, his grip on her wrist tightening. The moan that escapes her is involuntary and she forgets herself–forgets her plan–for just a moment, opening her mouth beneath his, letting him dip his tongue inside her mouth.

He breaks away, eyes dark and knowing, leaning close to her ear. Warm breath puffs agains her ear as he whispers, "Your pulse is racing, Jean." His fingers press into the pulse point of her wrist.

Checkmate.

Jean leans forward, returning the favor, and leaning close, "And your guard is down, _Doctor_." She sinks her teeth into the fleshy part of his ear and he stumbles back from her, grasping at his ear in pain, staring at her in shock.

She dashes past him, bundling the dress and jewels up and stuffing it into the puffy jacket she wears, calling out over her shoulder, "Until next time, Lucien!"

The game was still afoot.


	10. Jurassic Park AU

There's an intimacy to getting down in the dirt with someone and revealing the secrets of a lost world: hands and knees, wind kicking up dust into your eyes, pressed shoulder to hip, carefully blowing warm breath over exposed bone.

Drs. Lucien Blake and Jean Beazley revel in these revealed truths and intimate moments. They'd each be lying if they said they hadn't considered joining the other in the shower post-dig, fingers itching to help scrub away dirt and debris.

No matter how many fossils they find in the ground, it never seems to be enough for either of them. And so, when Patrick Tyneman pops the bottle of champagne in their trailer, smugly twirling his cane and swigging their alcohol, and promises them an adventure of a lifetime, they find themselves linking fingers and nodding.

Tyneman calls his new venture _Jurassic Park_.

Lucien and Jean climb into a helicopter, accompanied by their favorite graduate student, Alice Harvey, and find themselves face-to-face with Matthew Lawson. Lawson is the resident mathematician and, despite his stoic demeanor, he slides over to make room for Alice. Jean hides a smile behind her hand as the two immediately strike up a conversation about Chaos Theory.

Lucien is too busy being terrified of heights, eyes shut tight, to notice a thing. Jean slips her hand into his, squeezing slightly in comfort. They're on their way to Jurassic Park.

* * *

Lucien, for one of the first times in his life, is brought to near-tears at the sight of the brontosauruses moving in herds, plucking mouthfuls of foliage off nearby trees, their loud calls echoing across the valley.

He needs Jean to see this. Jean, who has been by his side for almost all of his life. He reaches down, scrabbling for her head, finding purchase, and turning her towards the dinosaurs.

Jean's gasp is audible and she's at his side in an instant, holding him tight, knowing he is overwhelmed with emotion.

His whole life had been sacrificed in pursuit of these creatures. His father disowned him, too disappointed in a son who never grew out of playing in the sandbox. Mei Lin (and every other woman in his life) had left him, unable–unwilling–to compete with his love of dinosaurs. Everyone had left him, except Jean.

And now they were here together, clinging to each other in a field of soft, pillowy grass, watching as their dreams came true, materializing before them in these gentle, living giants.

* * *

Jean, he finds out, is not his impulse control at all. She's his _enabler_. In school, their friends had teased them that Jean kept him in line, stopped him from going too far in his experiments and made sure he stopped and fed himself with something other than protein bars and whiskey.

But Jean is the first one to help his push the lap bar up, freeing both of them, Alice, and Matthew from the ride walking them through the wonders of DNA and creation and evolution. They leave behind a blustering Patrick Tyneman and Jean rolls her eyes at Lucien's conspiratorial grin.

As it turns out, Jean is the first one to usher them all through the lab and pick up and cradle a lamp-warmed egg, beckoning Lucien over. They stand together, cooing over a small, baby velociraptor like overly proud parents.

One of the lab techs, Munro something (Lucien can't be bothered to learn his name), glares at them disapprovingly, muttering angrily about no regard for protocol and rules.

With the exception of the day Jean agreed to become his dig partner, this is the best day of his life. And he's never been gladder to have Jean at his side.

* * *

When all hell breaks loose and he finds himself saddled with Tyneman's nephew and niece, Charlie and Mattie, Lucien appreciates the balance and stability Jean brings to his life.

At every turn, he catches himself turning to his left, expecting to see Jean by his side, ready with a solution or a comforting squeeze of his hand. Instead, he finds two scared children, clinging to his legs and arms.

Keeping them safe is a good distraction from missing Jean–from _worrying–_ about Jean. She and Alice are probably safe with Lawson and Tyneman and he prays for the first time in his life, sending up every promise he can think of, just as long as she's safe.

The kids aren't as bad as he expected. Charlie has a good head on his shoulders and Mattie is a little strange, a little awkward. But they're good kids.

Lucien had long given up hope on a family, on children. His own upbringing–all harsh, tough love and isolation–had all but shattered any dream of a family. His one shot at the picket fence had been with Mei Lin and he had screwed that up. Lucien knew he was a ticking time bomb, doomed to destroy the relationships of the living. It was why he buried himself in dirt and the past.

It was part of the reason he would never inflict himself upon Jean. The undercurrent of crackling tension and _more_ was always present between them, but he knew who he was, what he was. Jean deserved better.

But that was the thing about near-death experiences and coming face-to-face with a T-Rex: It made those wants–those desires–resurface.

All that mattered was keeping himself and these kids safe, getting Jean, and getting off this island. How had this dream turned into such a nightmare?

* * *

Their reunion isn't exactly how he pictured it.

She's running towards him, limping and hair disheveled, blood staining her shirt and trousers, scared and desperate, reaching for him. He wastes no time in running towards her, scooping her up in his arms, holding her close as she wraps her legs around his waist, burying her face in his neck out of sheer relief.

For a moment, time itself is suspended between them. All he feels is the warm, heavy weight of her in his arms–shaking and terrified, but alive and real. Her breath condenses on his neck and he can feel her racing heart pounding through her pulse point.

His hand flattens against her back and presses her closer, closer, closer.

They're alive. They're together. She slides down his body and takes his hand in hers, dragging him along. He follows blindly, hand in hand, a swirling mixture of emotions all resolving itself into one mantra: with Jean, everything felt better.

* * *

In some ways, Jurassic Park has ruined all the best parts of his life: dinosaurs and digging and science have been tainted by death and fear and screaming. It's something he will have to process and address–hopefully with a large bottle of whiskey next to him.

But at the end of it all, in a shaky helicopter ride away from the island and back to safety, Jean is by his side: whole and healthy and his. Her head is pillowed against his shoulder, her hand in his, and they are pressed together from shoulder to ankle. She seems to be as unwilling to let him go as he is of her.

That underlying tension between them is crackling once more and Lucien is finding it harder and harder to keep the boundaries between them. He closes his eyes and presses a kiss to the side of her head, breathing her in.

Across from them, he watches with a raised eyebrow as Matthew leans over and takes Alice's hand in his, gentle and reverent, his fingers tracing equations onto the back of her hand. A spark of protectiveness wells up in Lucien's chest at the thought of his favorite grad student being taken advantage of, but even he can see the sincerity in Lawson's eyes.

He wonders how he missed two people falling in love in the middle of a catastrophe.

Jean shifts against him as the helicopter rocks from side to side and Lucien leans his head against hers.

Perhaps they weren't the only ones who had fallen in love.

And so, a new dream began to take shape–away from living dinosaurs and academic conferences. Instead he saw himself and Jean, matching wedding bands, a child of their own playing in the sandbox: a life he could only imagine with Jean.

After all this time, it was time he brought his nose up from out of the past and take a chance at the future–at _Jean_.


	11. Stranger Things AU (Part 1)

She's a mystery to him. It's been too long since he had last been a father and Alice is nothing like Li. Alice is all questions and a tilting head, fiddling with wires and wondering why the toaster toasts her Eggos just the way she likes it.

He adds an extra helping of whiskey to his coffee in the morning and sits back in amazement of her, watching her carefully toast up a box of the waffles and presenting them to him like a gourmet breakfast.

Lucien savors every bite, smiling happily at her. It's been too long since he's been a father but he's falling back into the role like a second skin.

And then they have their first fight.

He's yelling and she's yelling and there's a voice somewhere in the back of his head telling him to stop, to stay calm. But he ignores it and he pulls the plug on the TV. The scream she releases is like a knife to his heart and he's shocked when for the first time since they started this family of theirs, she uses her powers on him.

The couch feels like it shatters his ankles, holding him in place, and he's helpless to do anything but watch as she storms out of their home into the woods, alone and angry. Panic claws at his chest and he tries to take deep breaths, to slow his racing heart.

She is not Li. He is not going to lose her.

He doesn't want to do it, wants to avoid adding any other weight to her shoulders, but the couch is crushing his legs and he needs help.

The fingers fly over the well-memorized numbers and it's only a few rings before Jean's voice is filtering in through the phone. The relief flooding through him is a cool balm on his aching heart and he explains, grateful for her quick promise to be there soon.

She's there in less than twenty minutes, letting herself in and together they push the couch off of his feet, collapsing onto it together. Jean is quiet, pensive, waiting for him to fill the silence.

Instead, he reaches into her purse, searching for what he knows will be there. Triumphantly, he pulls out the cigarette case and lights a single cigarette, taking a drag and offering it to Jean. This is easy, familiar. He needs it.

She passes it back to him and he wraps his lips around the cigarette, trying not to think about the way his lips are touching the place hers just did–a bastardization of a kiss.

He sighs, rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck. "I yelled," he whispers, turning anguished eyes on her. "I scared her." There's a beat and then a confession. "I scared myself."

Jean slumps against him, pressed together from shoulder to knee. "Alice _loves_ you, Lucien. She chose you as her family. A little yelling doesn't mean she's changed her mind." She purses her lips at him, eyes sympathetic. "She's a teenage _girl_ , Lucien. Do you know how many times I stormed out of my parents' house?"

For the first time since his fight with Alice, he feels his lips twitching upwards into a smile. "I remember. Do you know how many nights you spent on my couch in high school? I thought my father was going to kick us both out when he found us together that one night."

She bumps his shoulder, rolling her eyes. "Nothing happened and you know it. You're making it sound more salacious than it was on purpose."

Lucien shrugs unapologetically and the teasing laughter dies out, leaving silence once more. The television in the corner is flickering oddly and the memory of their fight returns. He drums his fingers against his thigh anxiously, turning eyes towards the door.

Jean covers his hand with hers, squeezing lightly. "She'll come back, Lucien. She's a smart girl."

"But what if she isn't? What if she doesn't come back? What if _they_ find her?" He stands quickly, hand running through his hair, mind racing through the possibilities of what could be happening to Alice right now. He begins gathering his utility belt and hat, panic consuming him once more.

And then Jean is there, hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look down into her eyes. "Breathe with me, Lucien. Breathe."

His eyes flutter close and he concentrates on her voice, on the feel of her cool fingers on his skin. The panic fades into the background and he lets out shuddering breath.

"You're good at that."

Jean shrugs, self-consciously, "Jack still has panic attacks–nightmares about, about, that place." Her eyes go glassy and he settles his hand on her hips, grounding her to the moment.

"Hey, it's okay. You're safe, Jack is safe. He's probably off on another one of those campaign things with the rest of the boys. And Christopher is looking out for him. It's okay."

She falls against him–relying on him to hold her up like she has for the last few weeks and months. He's her strength and she'll never be able to repay him. His arms wrap around her tightly, holding her close.

Inhaling the scent of him–woodsy and earthy, comforting–she pulls away, offering him a smile. "Let's give Alice a few minutes to come back and then we'll go looking for her–together."

He lets her lead him back to the couch, her hand in his, soothing over his anxieties. Their fingers are entwined and he keeps his eyes on the way her hand folds easily into his and nods.

"Deal."


	12. Stranger Things AU (Part 2)

Matthew was the safe option: steady, caring, stable. He was exactly what she needed in her life after the chaos and terror of the last year. Despite his austere persona, with her and her boys, he was a teddy bear, offering kind smiles, reassuring touches, and solid words of advice.

The boys seemed to finally be coming around and she had spent an evening leaning against the doorframe of the living room, listening to Matthew and Jack talk about bullies and being scared and how to plant your feet (even if you only had one good one) and face your fears.

In the evenings, Matthew was attentive and never pushed for more than she was willing to give. His kisses were near-reverent in their gentleness, as if he thought she may break if he gripped her hip too hard.

So it shouldn't have come as a surprise the day Matthew took her hands in his, face open and earnest, with his offer: _Come away with me. Let me take you and the boys from this place. Please, Jean. Let me take care of you._

She should have been elated. She should have kissed him, murmured against his lips, _Yes._ She should have jumped at the chance to leave this darkness behind them all.

And yet….

Every part of her belonged to Hawkins. So she had pulled her hands from Matthew's, caressed his cheek and whispered an apology and pleaded for time to think as she dashed out the door, headed for the only place–the only person–who made her feel safe and sane in this whole town.

She was parked outside of his cabin before she had time to realize she'd arrived, the door opening before she could even raise her hand to knock, and then he was there before her: Lucien Blake.

He had been her rock, not just in these last few months, but since the loss of Christopher, since high school–running around in the parking lot together, smoking cigarettes for the first time and laughing at each other as they coughed and spluttered.

Lucien was her friend and protector, her constant. He would know what to do.

"Jean?"

She pushed inside, running her hands through her hair, pacing back and forth. His hand on her shoulder stopped her, looking confused. "What's wrong? Is it the boys? Just let me get my gun and–"

But she placed her hand on his chest, stopping him. "No, it's not the boys, Lucien. It's me."

Immediately, his hands were upon her, searching for any signs of injury and she could see the panic rising in him. She felt a wave of regret at causing him such distress simply because she wasn't being clear. She stilled his hands and closing her eyes and taking deep breaths.

"Lucien, Matthew wants us–me and the boys–to leave Hawkins. He had a place up north, away from here."

Jean felt the change in Lucien immediately. He was suddenly stiff and stoic, a perfect mask of impassivity upon his face. She looked up at him, searching for any reaction.

She saw his throat bob as he swallowed hard. He kept his eyes just to the left of her, as if he couldn't bring himself to look directly at her. "I hope you're happy, then, Jean." His eyes flicked to her then and she saw the anguish in his eyes, making her heart clench in her chest. "You deserve to be happy."

Stepping closer to him, she looked up at him, head tilted to the side and voice soft. "So you think I should go, then?"

Lucien dropped his gaze, shuffling his feet and resting his hands against his abdomen–a nervous gesture he'd never really grown out of. "I think you should do whatever makes you happy, Jeannie. You know that."

Frustration welled within her. She _needed_ him to give her a reason to go or stay. With shaking hands, she hooked her fingers beneath his chin and brought his gaze to hers, searching. The mask he had put on was cracking, peeling away with each touch, and she saw him clearly for the first time.

She licked her lips. "Lucien, is there a reason I should stay in Hawkins?"

Jean held her breath and watched as Lucien's eyes fluttered closed and he nodded as if the gesture caused him pain. Pressing on, she cupped his face, feeling the prickle of his bears against her palm. "Tell me," she commanded.

Lucien's eyes opened and she felt him grip her waist, drawing her closer. "Stay, Jeannie. Stay for me. _Please_."

It was all she needed to hear: acknowledgement of this _bond_ between them, the reason she could never give herself completely to Matthew. She sighed, wrapping her arms around his neck and lifting herself onto her tiptoes to accommodate the height difference between them, slanting her mouth over his.

Where Matthew handled her like glass, Lucien clutched her tight, leaving imprints of his fingerprints on her hips. Where Matthew's lips ghosted over hers, Lucien was bruising, tongue pushing into her mouth and exploring every inch of her–all grazing teeth and bites of her lower lip.

Where Matthew left a peaceful warmth inside her, Lucien left a raging fire, all heat and desire and passion.

She clung to him, shaking, as he kissed her. Her own hands were free to finally explore the curve of his neck and the gentle curl of his hair. Lucien pulled away, still clutching her to him and she noticed with no amount of shame that her leg was hitched over his hip, desperate to put herself as close to him as possible.

He latched onto her neck, sucking and kissing and nuzzling. The reverberations from his words pulsed beneath her skin as he muttered, " _Stay, stay, stay,"_ over and over again.

For all that her life was tied to this town, her heart was tied to this man. And she could never leave.


End file.
